The other day I was joking with my friend about what qualities we want in a potential significant other and how people are prone to calling us "picky." I was like, "As if a six-foot liberal Rhodes Scholar with a year-round tan and desire for two kids, who also happens to own a peony farm and went by the nickname 'Cunnilingus Master' in college, is too much to ask?"
It's a nice feeling when your boyfriend expresses interest in seeing you often and is disappointed when you can't get together. It's most certainly not a nice feeling to sit and watch in horror as a grown 36-year-old man gets red in the face, curls his lips into an exaggerated pout, stamps his feet, and makes whining sounds. Was Chris just passionate, or was I dating a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?
The long-standing theory is that there are major health benefits for the marrieds of the world—they tend to live longer, healthier lives. But new research is showing that this “marriage benefit” does not extend to those that are unhappily married, divorced, or widowed.
Though The New York Post recently ran a story about couples signing "pre-prenups" before marriage is even on the table, most cohabiting, or even co-existing, couples don't bother. I mean, if it's legalities you want, either get married or go down to City Hall and register as domestic partners.
If you had brain cancer, would you date a neurologist? Would you sleep with a chiropractor to ease your chronic back pain? Around my twentieth birthday, I was hit with a sudden onset of crippling depression and anxiety. After two years, several doctors and a veritable rainbow of colored mood-altering capsules, I still felt hopeless. With no cure in sight, I fell for a psychotherapist.
On our first date, we ended up making out in a bar on the Lower East Side. Our second date, I invited him up to my apartment. Maybe I was moving too fast, but I didn't care. After a tough breakup, I wanted to let my hair down. Which, I discovered over the next few weeks, wasn't Tobey's thing. One night I mentioned it jokingly, and he said, "I don't mind doing that at all. If a woman is well-groomed."
A columnist for The Frisky takes a break from her regularly scheduled "Sex with Susannah" programming to bring you breaking news from the "everything your mother never told you about sex" front. During the course of writing her column, receiving reader letters and writing about sex and relationships, it's come to her attention that there are some basic sex facts it would behoove everyone to know... especially the ladies.
The Frisky's “Mind of Man” columnist has argued that couples moving in together is the kiss of death for a relationship. This other writer thinks he's crazy—always, always, always move in together before you commit to marriage!—but there are other real kiss of death moments for couples. Check out "15 Signs You're Headed For Bed Death" below. Just don't be mad if you decide to dump your boyfriend as a result.
I love to travel, but my man stresses out if we go anywhere not reachable by subway. So after six years of togetherness, I tend to either travel by my lonesome or extend the rare trips we take together for a few days after he's gone. But we're going to Puerto Rico in a couple weeks. And as I feared, the bitching has already begun.
As a young girl—ovaries yet to ripen and hymen still in intact—reading Judy Blume books were like porn for me … educational porn. These were the pre-internet days, before I could Google "funny feeling down there" or "penis, hard-on." All I had was my imagination and my canon of Judy Blume books to aid my highly curious pre-teen mind. They were a permanent Sharpie mark on my burgeoning deviant mind.
A recent issue of a woman's magazine instructed their readers to date "nerds." The article read like it was written by a bunch of mean girl anthropologists in little black dresses who just discovered a whole new species of men. They seemed so happy to find guys who weren't smug investment bankers, aging jocks, or sociopathic musicians. But by their definition, a nerd is a scrawny, wheezing, socially awkward savant utterly devoted to any woman who pays him even the slightest attention. That's not a nerd.
Three years ago, off the back of a bad relationship, I needed out of Southern California and decided to move to London for six months. I was looking forward to being single for the first time in five years and was relishing the chance to dance, date and drink in a massive, heaving city. I would kick up my heels in swanky clubs, live in a Tudor cottage and date a man who wore a bowler hat and carried an umbrella. Three weeks later, I opened the front door to find my roommate's brother, Mark, standing there with a bag in one hand, a bicycle in the other. He had just left his wife and three children and needed a place to stay.
In general, I'm not really a jealous person; in fact, a recurring fantasy is to watch whomever I'm seeing with another woman (I haven't done that yet—I like keeping it in the fantasy realm). But maybe I'm more jealous than I'd like to think, because it's taken meeting several of his friends for me to assess them individually, to get to know them, before I feel totally comfortable. Some of them ask him for back rubs, and the first time I saw him take his hands to another girl's muscles, I can't lie: it bothered me.
The U.S. job market tanked, the dollar crashed, and my company laid off 16 investigators. The experience left me feeling shaken and insecure. And then one day I came across a video of famed American burlesque performer Dita Von Teese dancing at the Crazy Horse. Three minutes later I was enrolled in a class to learn the art of burlesque.